First Contact
by Bondmaiden
Summary: He saunters down the spiraling staircase of ecstasy, holding Jude in one hand and his sanity in the other. [Alvin/Jude, post-fight in Hamil]


There isn't anything beautiful about how he bites Jude's throat and tries not to groan at the way the boy accidentally jerks his hips upwards at the foreign contact. Not when Jude can barely move his wrists after getting them bound together above his head, wrapped up tightly in Alvin's favourite six-digit scarf. Precious things for precious people, he's the mercenary with the heart of gold, after all. Speaking of gold, there're tears in Jude's bright golden eyes, drowning those pools of molten resolve—_broken_, overflowing and trickling past bruised and bloodied cheeks—_as red as raw hearts_, as broken lips whispers words that don't make sense to Alvin anymore—_please stop_.

Not when they're like _this_.

Not when _he's_ like this.

_Not_ ever.

Alvin silences the kid with a wide-eyed kiss; it isn't an ingénue, adults don't kiss with closed eyes, they kiss with their eyes wide open, staring down at each other because they're afraid of being stabbed in the back. Afraid of losing love. Afraid of losing Jude. His return to Elympios won't mean a single thing if he can't bring the kid together with him, even if he has to bundle Jude up inside a suitcase for him to haul back to Trigleph. Jude has to be with him. The mercenary beat the boy into submission, kicked his jaw, and sent him flying, what else can he do to break the boy apart and render him helpless? What else can he do to erase the burning determination inside the boy's eyes?

His willpower, inspired by Milla.

Now that Milla's gone, he's nothing.

Alvin wonders if Jude'll be nothing without him.

Or rather, if he'll be nothing without Jude.

He desperately tries to convey that feeling too fragile for a mercenary like him, digging his fingers into Jude's pliant body—too soft for a male—and one of his hands travels downwards to grip the kid's hip—too narrow, _girlish._ There's no taboo in what they're doing, all's fair in love and war, and that old man Rowen mentioned before that spoils of war were for the taking for the victor's side. Alvin and Jude's little war against each other—Alvin's the champion and Jude's the loser, so Jude's the spoils of war. It's only fair that he gets to nibble down the kid's pale throat, leaving kisses that hurt, marking Jude because he's already Alvin's property now. Spoils of war. _Everything's_ fair in love and war.

There's a whimper, it definitely comes from Jude because Alvin doesn't whimper—_only that night when he brought Jude to his mother for the first time, he lets out a hoarse sob into the pillow_—and the brunet skims his fingers down protruding ribcages, counting the bones, kissing the ridges, knowing that as much as he treasures the kid, he'll never be forgiven for doing this. Jude's got a big heart, but he doesn't believe that the do-gooder'll excuse him for licking down his navel, unfastening his belt and removing his pants. There's a limit to a saint's forgiveness, after all.

He can't say that he isn't pleased to find out that the boy's already dripping with need, just like a girl, just like Presa, and lets an estranged grin ghost over his lips.

Jude likes older girls.

Alvin's an older guy.

But that's okay. He'll take what he can get when he knows the boy can't fight against the tight restraints that held his wrists against the headboard of the mayor's bedroom in Hamil.

"Your first time, honors student?" he chuckles, eyes half-lidded, all mocking smiles. Alvin likes the flickering look of terror on Jude's red-smudged face, matted hair plastered against rounded cheeks, eyelashes wet with tears, and wonders why he hadn't done this earlier. The thrill he gets from seeing such thoroughly smashed purity like Jude was an intensely gratifying sensation. "Don't worry, I'll make it good for you," he purrs against Jude's thigh, sinking his teeth into the tender flesh and hearing the boy gasp for lungfuls of air.

The corrupt ecstasy clouds his already depraved judgment; there isn't any right or wrong to Alvin now, all that matters is breaking the boy so that he'll never be forgiven for loving Jude like this. It's a role he's already come to terms with since everyone already branded him a traitor, and a traitor he'll be in the end. Being condemned to such fate isn't so bad after all, not when he's got Jude writhing underneath him right now, and he whispers delicate words of affection that nobody will believe, not from him. Not from Alvin the Traitor.

He lets his vision linger on Jude's twitching cock, watching the dribbling sticky mess pooling on his stomach, finding it cute how the boy's already so aroused it won't even take much to bring him over the edge, and grins as he glances upwards.

Tearful golden eyes meet his gaze dead on.

His grin fades.

There're words being mouthed now, a glint of teeth between plush lips, and the corners of Jude's mouth suddenly flexes upwards into a feeble smile. The boy lets his eyes flutter shut, dewy eyelashes quivering and trembling like the wings of a butterfly, and his expression relaxes into what seems to be like submi—

Alvin growls and breaks the eye contact, dipping his head downwards, swallowing Jude whole.

He hates it when the boy doesn't know when to stop forgiving.

And all he wants now is to forget how the boy's cries echoed off the walls, knowing with every curve of his tongue and twist of his lips, every clench of his hands parting Jude's legs, every sweat dripping off his body, everything dirty and demented and disgusting about himself—he's already _forgiven_ from the start.


End file.
